The Victim
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Wilson, like hundreds of thousands of American men, has a secret. No slash intended. Please read and review. Thanks.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I decided to start yet another new fic. It will be comprised of parts that are deliberately short. It addresses a subject that i'm passionate about.I was thinking of it today and this story came to me.

No slash intended. Will be House&Wilson friendship. Please read and review.

(OT: iwant to change the world. but i feel like that's impossible. it sucks.)

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_The Victim_

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i.

Day by day, his secret grew harder to keep. It had been easy the last six months. The outbursts had been far apart and mild, but she had steadily worsened over the past few weeks. He had hoped she would change, that it was only temporary. He had tried to be a better husband, tried to give her more attention and help out around the house and go quietly about his business. He had driven himself to achieve more patience, doubling his search for self-perfection. He had tried so hard not to provoke her, but despite his efforts, she fell into a swing. She sunk deeper and deeper into a comfort, a belief that he deserved this, that she was justified. And what could he do? She was his wife. And he was the man.

When he came home that night, she confronted him, crazed with anger.

"What the hell is this?"

"What's what, Mandy?"

"Don't you be condescending, you bastard. Tell me who she is. Tell me who you're fucking."

The crumpled shirt she grasped in one hand barely registered. A shirt? So what?

"I can smell the perfume, James. I swear to god, I'll kill her."

"Perfume? But Mandy, there is no perfume. I'm not seeing anyone."

"Don't lie to me!" She had slapped him. "I'm not stupid."

He hesitated, knowing he might be in for it. A slap. That was always the beginning.

"I know you're not stupid, honey," he started, trying to keep an even tone. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm not cheating on you."

That gleam slithered through her eyes. His sense of hope plummeted fast.

She slapped him again, not another word. She switched hands, swiping at him with the shirt bunched up in her fist. He flinched, shutting his eyes, slowly backing up.

"You son of a bitch! You good for nothing, piece of shit! I hate you!"

Her shrieking intensified, until finally, she pinned him against the wall and dropped the shirt. He stood, hands held up uselessly, eyes squeezed shut as usual. He stayed as still as he could while she hit him, barely moving when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him, kneeing him in his side. She slapped him over and over again in the face, once he was on his knees, and he hung his head anyway, just waiting for it to stop. He knew she would be satisfied eventually. He just had to wait. He just had to be patient.

"You fucking bastard! You motherfucking bastard! You're so fucking worthless! All you're good for is fucking around! What's her name, damn it? What's her God damn name?"

Each cheek stung a little sharper every time her hand made contact. He was flushed, whether with shame or her handprints made no difference. He waited and waited, her words singing away at his insides. If only he had done his own laundry. He should have. He shouldn't make her do it. This was his fault, the result of his own stupidity. Fuck.

With the last strike, she sent him tumbling back a little and stepped away. Her face was twisted into an ugly frown, and he opened his eyes tentatively, only glancing up at her for a second. She stood stiff and huffing, fists clenched, even more angered that he just sat there on the floor and kept his eyes downcast.

"Now you fucking pick up that shirt and wash it until it's so fucking clean that it looks brand new," she ordered, voice toned down to low and threatening. She paused for a moment before storming away, and he slowly moved to pick up his shirt, eyes never leaving the ground as he heard her slam their bedroom door shut. He looked at the shirt silently, brought it to his nose. All he could smell was his own cologne.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's the 2nd installment.

No slash intended.

Also, if the name of Wilson's wife in the first part wasn't a clue, this is pre-infarction days. One of Wilson's previous marriages.

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ii.

House had picked up on the shift from day one. But he hadn't decided to label it until six weeks went by, Wilson having sunk himself deeper and deeper into the new mood. He watched the oncologist meticulously, day by day, keeping an approximate chart in his head of how often Wilson smiled or laughed or looked at ease. At first, the decline was gradual, but these last few weeks had shown a rapid increase in the gloom, the silence, the further excess of working. Something was up. It was House's new puzzle.

He had spent several hours contemplating how to attack it, concluding that a direct approach was out of the question. It wasn't the way he functioned. He was to the point, yes. But he wasn't good at emotional honesty. He couldn't ask Wilson straight up what had changed, what was going on. They didn't talk like that. It had to be subtle, almost subconscious.

"So," House started, plopping down in the chair across from Wilson and munching on his potato chips. Wilson barely looked up, focusing on paperwork yet again. "I've been thinking. Maybe we should have one of those Velcro walls installed, right in my office. Work would suddenly be fun."

Wilson gave an annoyed sigh, relentlessly moving his pen across the forms. House watched him, blue eyes clear and piercing, like two small lights that could mesmerize people if they would just pay attention. It didn't take long for it to make Wilson uncomfortable.

"What?" the oncologist snapped.

"No lunch?" House asked.

"No."

"O-kay. Why not?"

Wilson sighed again, rolling his eyes. "Because I'm not hungry."

"You're not a breakfast person, and dinner was about sixteen hours ago, if I'm guessing right."

"Just leave me alone, please," said Wilson, the pen motion unceasing.

House was frowning now. He leaned back against the chair, throwing one arm back over the top.

"What's going on with the wife? Haven't heard you sing her praises in a while."

Wilson clenched his jaw, and House made no indication that he noticed.

"I haven't heard you say anything about Stacy either," said Wilson.

House shrugged. "Nothing to tell. We're two peas in a pod, and all that crap."

Wilson blinked furiously and pressed the pen into the paper a little more. He had been dreading the moment when House would question him. He had no intention of saying anything to anyone about what was going on in his marriage, but he could only resist House for so long before his friend drove him insane.

"So back to the original topic, before you so obviously changed the subject. Why are you not eating?"

"I'm not 'not eating.' I didn't feel like having lunch today. That's all. End of story."

"Yeah, and now that I think about it, we haven't had lunch here for days. I've been holed up in my office or playing hooky with my lawyer, and you've been – not around."

"You're saying unless I have lunch with you, I don't eat?"

"I'm saying I have no way of knowing that this is a new development."

Wilson gave his most pronounced sigh yet and got to his feet, picking up his paperwork. House waited for a second before following him, picking up his pace to match Wilson's once they got out the cafeteria doors.

"You really insist on being a pest, don't you?" the oncologist said, taking a sharp turn and heading for his office.

"You're snapping. You don't snap."

"If you would just leave me alone like I ask, maybe I wouldn't be."

"We haven't talked about anything in weeks."

"We don't talk. You ramble, and I comment."

"Why is this pissing you off so much? Why the avoidance?"

They reached Wilson's office door, and House broke one of his own unspoken rules, grabbing at Wilson's shoulder. Wilson pulled away from him, and House stopped when he noticed the way his friend tensed and the grimace that flickered through Wilson's face.

"Stay the hell away," the younger doctor told him, slamming his door shut. House heard the lock move.

Something was going on. He had to figure it out. He suddenly had a dark feeling creeping into his stomach.


End file.
